


Figment of Imagination

by theimprobable1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock introduces John to his childhood friend. Well, I say friend...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figment of Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=23298808#t23298808) My first Sherlock fic. Unbetaed.

 It is both too late and too early to be awake, but John has enough experience with nightmares to know that whatever he does now, he won’t be able to fall asleep again for another two hours at least. His throat is dry. He will go downstairs and make himself a cup of herbal tea and read a book or something to take his mind away from blood and sand and gunshot.

He is in the middle of the second flight of stairs when he notices that the living room door is half-open and there is light coming through the gap – Sherlock is awake and about. Does the man never sleep? Not for the first time John considers bringing home some sedatives from the surgery and forcing them on Sherlock – it seems like a better option than letting his friend pass out from sheer exhaustion.

He takes further two steps down and hears Sherlock’s voice.

“… you’re not being helpful at all, Victor!” Sherlock says exasperatedly.

John freezes. Victor?  Who is he that Sherlock lets him visit at three in the morning? Who is he that Sherlock lets him visit at all? That he wants help from him?  
“You’re asking wrong questions! It doesn’t help me think in the least, you have to look at it differently!”

In his mind’s eye John can see Sherlock pacing across the room, deep in thought, like he has often done in front of John. Talking to John.  It is John who is supposed to be down there with Sherlock, helping him think, asking the right questions, John, not some stranger Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to mention!

John chides himself immediately. Who is he to begrudge Sherlock having another friend? He should be glad that Sherlock has someone to confide in. So what if Sherlock’s never told John about this Victor, so what if he has a secret friend (a secret lover?), so what if there are parts of his life he doesn’t want to share with John. It’s not like John has any right to ask for more than he already has. He should return to his room. He will have a drink of tap water in the bathroom and go back to sleep.

He is about to turn around when he hears his name.

“You should think like John,” says Sherlock’s deep voice. “What would John say?”

Has Sherlock spoken to Victor about John?

John doesn’t hear the stranger answer, and Sherlock continues speaking:

“No, John would never say that. He has far better manners than you.”

There is another pause. Once again, John doesn’t hear the other man answer.  Is Sherlock on the phone with him? Sherlock hates phone calls.

“Obviously,” sneers Sherlock in well-known tone of voice. “Do try to keep up. But how does he even do it? How does he do it, Victor? He’s obviously just as stupid as the rest of them, so how does he manage to always say the right thing? Isn’t it infuriating? How is he so… so…”

Pause.

“No, that’s not what I was going to say, as you very well know, and don’t give me that look, you know I can’t stand it.”

Don’t give me that look? Is it a video call? But how could Sherlock be pacing with the headphones on? It doesn’t make any sense.

“The point is,” says Sherlock impatiently, “that I need you to try to think like John. What would he notice? What wouldn’t he notice? How does he see the world? How does his brain work?”

Pause.

“Well obviously you’re not like him. You were never anything like him, even when you were alive.”

Even when you were alive? Dear God, thinks John in a rush of realisation, is Sherlock speaking to the skull?

“Could you stop distracting me with these stupid remarks? John never does that. So. Look at that. If you were John. What would you notice? The bruises, obviously. The clothing. Not the nails.  The shoes.” He’s speaking about a cold case Lestrade allowed him to solve so he would stop annoying him.” You would ask, why has she taken off her shoes? And I’d say, obvious, they were new and hurting, look at the holes in her tights. And you would say, why would she wear uncomfortable shoes if she knew that… Or, no, maybe you’d rather say…”

Pause.  John is standing right behind the door. He doesn’t remember moving.

“Are you being deliberately childish? Why do I even talk to you? You’re no longer any help.”

Pause.

“I cannot just go and wake him just because you refuse to cooperate, can I?”

John pushes the door open.

“I’m awake,” he says quietly, looking around the room, making sure there’s really nobody else but Sherlock. Sherlock flinches.

“John,” he breathes, caught off guard. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no. Nightmare. I was going to make myself a cup of peppermint tea, do you want some?”

“You know I hate that stuff,” says Sherlock, and John hears the nervous edge in his voice. He turns to the kitchen so Sherlock has time to compose himself. “I want Earl Grey with two, no, three sugars.”

“You won’t be able to sleep with all the caffeine, Sherlock,” says John.

“I’m not going to sleep, I’m solving a case.”

“It’s a cold case, Sherlock. It can wait a few hours while you get some sleep. What about some hot chocolate, then?” John opens the fridge and takes out the milk.

“I’m not five years old, I don’t drink hot chocolate,” says Sherlock petulantly.

“That’s the stupidest think I’ve ever heard you say,” John calls from the kitchen and puts two mugs of milk in the microwave. Luckily there’s nothing revolting inside.

“You never told me the skull had a name,” John begins tentatively as he stirs the cocoa powder into the milk.

“You never asked,” Sherlock answers after a beat.

“Well, I’m asking now,” says John and carries the mugs into the living room. “You knew… him, then, when he was alive?”

Sherlock accepts the mug without looking at John. He’s sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up and pressed tightly to his chest. John wants to hug him a little.

“Yes.”

“You were friends?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No. Of course not, if you don’t want to. But… you told him about me. It would be only fair.”

Sherlock sips his hot chocolate, frowning. John wonders what is going on under the dark curls, in Sherlock’s strange, beautiful, brilliant mind.

“When I was a child,” says Sherlock after a few minutes, looking into his cup, and John holds his breath, because he can tell by the tone of Sherlock’s voice that he is about to tell him something he has never told anyone, that John is about to be allowed further into Sherlock’s private world that anyone has ever ventured. “I had a friend. An… an imaginary friend. Victor. We did everything together, everything.” John sees a small, curly-haired boy examining a dead ant with a magnifying glass, pointing out something delightedly to someone who isn’t there. “Then I went to school, but I didn’t make friends, because all the children were so stupid. None of them were as clever as Victor and me, they just didn’t understand.”

Sherlock pauses to take a gulp of the chocolate, his earlier protests entirely forgotten. Growing up is difficult for everyone, John muses. He doesn’t want to think what it must have felt like for Sherlock, too brilliant to be understood by anyone but himself.

“When I was sixteen I went to university,” Sherlock continues and John doesn’t ask about the years he skipped, “and there was this boy. Lesley Trevor. He… he looked almost like Victor. I found out that his middle name actually was Victor. I thought it must mean something. I thought… But he was nothing like the real Victor. And then… he died. He’d… been ill, and he’d donated his body to the university for medical research. And it was better, somehow, because if my friend was dead, then he had to have been real. So one night I decided to steal his skull, to have some… proof. But it was dark and I heard somebody coming and I panicked, so I’m not sure if this one is actually his.”

John doesn’t really know what to say to that. In the end he settles for resting his hand on Sherlock’s forearm, and he wishes he could reach the messed-up kid in whose mind stealing skulls was the only way to cope with loneliness. Sherlock flinches a little, but doesn’t pull away.

“It didn’t make much sense even then, and it makes even less sense now, but… it’s just easier for me to think aloud, to have someone to explain things to.”

“I know,” says John, because that’s finally something he understands. “But I hear skulls are not very helpful when it comes to asking the right questions.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

“No, they’re not.”

“Is he any better at figuring out how my brain works, at least?”

Finally, a smile. Small and hesitant, but definitely there.

“He’s hopeless. It’s probably because he has no brain of his own. I think he’s a little jealous of you.”

“Is he? Because I have a brain?”

Sherlock looks at him. “Among other things,” he says quietly, and John’s breath catches in his throat. Why does John suddenly feel like he doesn’t really understad English, like Sherlock must have meant something else than what his words mean in John’s head, something that would fit better with the way he looks at John.

“Well, he’s lucky that I’m extremely generous,” says John and hopes to sound light-hearted. “I can’t share my brain, obviously, but I can give him a briefing on how to ask the right questions, so he can be more useful to you when I’m not around.  Because I’ve decided to be very selfless and allow him to talk to you when I’m asleep. Or at work, or just not here.” He takes a deep breath. “ At other times, though, I’m afraid I won’t be willing to share. “

“You won’t have to,” Sherlock whispers, his gaze very intent, and John knows something earth-shattering will happen very soon. “Nobody, not even the most perfect figment of my considerable imagination, can possibly compare to you.”

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s arm and smiles. He has a strange urge to laugh.

“That’s good,” he says with a grin. “I wouldn’t like to feel slighted. Now, tell me about this cold case, so I can ask you about something obvious and show him how it’s done.”

  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Figment Of Imagination [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004262) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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